


What Kind of Psychiatrist Are You

by yoohoopuddin



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7467594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoohoopuddin/pseuds/yoohoopuddin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has undertaken a new case where the leading suspect is none other than James Moriarty. However, it isn't the consulting criminal's track record that sets Will on edge: but Hannibal's interest in assisting him with the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Eat Him

“As much as I’m certain you’d be able to make something grotesquely delicious out of him, I’m going to have to request that you try not to eat our guest tonight.”  
 Hannibal catches a smirk twitching at Will’s lips as he makes his request. He’s joking, which Hannibal actually finds quite delightful. It’s soothing to acknowledge that Will Graham isn’t so much horrified by his habit of cannibalism but instead, rather accustomed to it. 

“I can assure you, I intend to do no such thing. I respect that our-“ Hannibal clears his throat, “honoured guest, must remain alive in order for your investigation to properly dismantle this,” the man draws his eyes over the paper in his hands - a business card, a boasting card, “criminal Empire.” 

It amuses Will all the more to see Hannibal doubt their guest’s authenticity as a criminal mastermind. Honestly, he has every right to do so - he is a widely successful serial killer who has managed to gracefully escape the clutches of the law many a time. Will purses his lips, however, as he recognises that Hannibal can’t quite claim all the glory of his escapades for himself. His graceful escapes, many a time, required the help of an all too obliging Will. 

“Thank you,” Will mocks, glancing at the card himself as Hannibal sets it out precariously close to his recipe index. The letter ‘M’, neatly outlined by a rich navy blue.  Moriarty, it reads, Consulting Criminal.

-

Will had been slightly hesitant of taking this particular case. Perhaps it was the fact that it lacked the usual macabre spectacles that so often assorted his work. Simple - boring - dead bodies, a few scattered here and there as the result of bullets to the head, chest or, occasionally, a bomb. Still, recognition rose that whoever was orchestrating these deaths had to be clever, calculated and Will, with his devastatingly empathetic insight, should be the one to suss out the clever, calculated meaning behind it all. That, and Jack was probably in the process of trying to sleep at night for once: and giving poor Will Graham a case that did not involve human violins or bee-infested brains for once would help ease the guilt that fuelled his insomnia. 

Will might also pin his slight hesitation down to the fact that Hannibal didn’t seem disinterested. If anything, Hannibal had encouraged him to pursue this boring case. He even offered to help, believed that if he invited the suspect to dinner at Lecter’s humble abode, that he would accept.  
 The suspect being James ‘Jim’ Moriarty, a guest lecturer in Mathematics at a university. It hadn’t taken very long at all for the FBI to be aware of his former ties to London, and the similarity between the criminal activity that had taken place during his residency in England and the numerous murders scattered within his proximity in America. Will had noted that their ease in identifying him was not a mistake on his part. He wanted to be noticed. 

Hannibal’s interest set Will slightly on edge for this reason also. He could easily pass it off as a pursuit of knowledge, a social experiment, a desire to cook, a need to review the competition. Yet, Will was having trouble doing just that. Perhaps he was over analysing in believing that Dr. Lecter’s intrigue regarding the Moriarty case was anything to do with the fact that the Irishman undertook a role at a university within throwing distance of the horrors of the Chesapeake ripper. Perhaps not.

-

The doorbell chimes at approximately quarter to eight in the evening. It is accompanied by the careful footsteps of their host, the echo of their arrival seeming to set the pace of each calculated footfall. The door opens.

“Do come in,” Hannibal greets. His eyes linger over the man stood on his porch. Impressive, surely. A smile dares to cross his lips, though it is far removed from its usual connotations of pleasantry, safety, trust. The man adjusts the lapels of his suit - one that Hannibal takes the time to admire, is, indeed pressed to perfection. Then, he enters. Not without a deliberate glance backward, into the deceiving depths of a conveniently dark night. Hannibal’s smile turns genuine: he’d known it was a good idea to prepare dinner for four. 

As Moriarty’s slim silhouette becomes obscured by the closing door, Hannibal stares out into the dark himself. He hopes that their guest’s plus one will show himself sooner or later. It would be a tragedy if he had to reheat their food.

-


	2. Hello

\-- 2 Hours Earlier -

“I’m going to go ahead and assume that you know him a bit more than by simple hearsay?” Sebastian leans against the door frame, the perfect portrait of nonchalance. Jim observes him, he might just frame him one day - he makes such the pretty picture. The sniper glances at the photograph in his hand, a picture attached to some academic journal or another. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He rolls his eyes and tosses it aside, allows his eyes to settle on something a bit more pleasant: Jim. Or, more specifically, Jim’s fingers darting across the screen of his phone: his most prized possession, well, a possible second to Sebastian, though the hitman certainly doubts it. That must mean the car is on its way. 

Jim looks up, slides the phone into his trouser pocket. “Yes.” 

Sebastian raises a brow. Jim blinks.  
 “Oh, you want the whole backstory?” A smirk happens to dance across Jim’s lips as he paces three careful steps toward Sebastian. 

Sebastian waves a hand, motioning for the Irishman to continue, elaborate, actually explain something to him for once. Christ, he was putting up with residence in America. Whatever brought them here ought to be important.

“Lecter had an office in London,” Jim begins, tongue wetting his lower lip: an anticipatory device. “He must have reckoned that there wasn’t quite enough blood being shed on our streets.” 

Sebastian folds his arms, nestled into the doorframe as though it were a story-time nook.

“You see,” Jim stops within a breath of Sebastian, chin raised, in compromise of their height difference. “He has a rather… interesting… history when one takes the time to investigate his psychiatry work. His patients often end up in,” he smiles, “uncomfortable predicaments.”  
 Sebastian mirrors Jim’s smile. He knows exactly what the man’s referring to: Lecter has a notorious track record, his patients boast crimes that range from plain old emotionally aggravated murders to disgustingly ornate killings sprees. His smile disappears, however, when he knows exactly what the man’s alluding to. 

“Oh, shit,” Sebastian realises, unfolding his arms and straightening his stance - as if he has to defend himself against the weight of such knowledge.

“I was one of those patients,” Jim confirms, his smile hasn’t faded at all, if anything - it beams all the brighter. 

“So, that’s why we’re here. That’s why you took that job. Revenge?” Sebastian quizzes, his brow furrows as he seems to scrutinise the mathematician relaxing before him.

“Maybe,” is all Jim replies, lacking any form of reaction to Sebastian’s moment of recognition. He simply leans forward, a steady hand patting down an unwelcome crease in his sniper’s shirt. Sebastian looks down. As soon as he’d seen the outfit draped across his bed, he’d known that he was invited to Dr. Lecter’s dinner party as more than a lookout. He wasn’t just a bodyguard hiding in the bushes anymore, he felt like he was arm candy. A description that made him all the more uneasier when Jim unravelled the web of rumours circulating Hannibal’s exquisite palette. 

“Ah,” Jim withdraws his hand, satisfied with his efforts and reaches it back into his pocket. “Car is already here. Must have scared them shitless last time.” The smile is yet to fade.

Sebastian nods, huffing out a snort of laughter in agreement. The information spawns in his head: feeding on his every thought, idea as though it were a parasite. Revenge might not sit quite right, after all - Jim had profited magnificently as a criminal mastermind. Business was booming: Sebastian had always thought he’d had everything that’d he’d aspired: power, fear. Control. Did he really always want that? Did he not before - before Lecter’s.. sessions? _Maybe._ Maybe _maybe_ means that an act of revenge from Jim could just as likely be a very gratuitous thank-you. 

\- - - - -

Sebastian blinks. There he goes. Jim's figure obscured by the door. And -

Sebastian catches his eye: Hannibal Lecter, staring straight at him - the man’s smile illuminated by the oil lamp burning softly in the upper pillar of his porch. 

_Hello,_ he seems to say. His smile seems to lure Sebastian closer, seems to knock him off balance - if only for a mere fraction of a second.

Sebastian purses his lips. Blinks. And -

The door is closed, stained glass reflecting the soft glow of an oil lamp, the hard reality of the night to come.


End file.
